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“I don’t want you walking home alone,” she states since we always have a safety-first rule. “It’s pretty late.”
“I’ll walk you home,” Foster offers to me. “I don’t mind.”
“Or I can call a cab.” I shrug and then address my roommate, “Go on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Darkness.
The scene shifts as I open the ladies’ room door into the dimly lit wooden hallway. Foster is exiting the men’s room at the same time, cleaning his glasses with the end of his shirt. A sliver of skin peeks out between his garments. I follow his hand as he returns the black frames to his face. His hair is slightly disheveled, his eyes are dilated, and his cheeks are tinged a slight shade of pink from the excessive amounts of alcohol we have been consuming over the past few hours.
“You know,” I slur, leaning against the doorframe, “you’re kind of hot, Foster.”
“You’re drunk.”
“A little. So what? So are you.”
“True.”
“But you’re still cute. How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”
“Because it’d cut into my masturbation schedule.”
I chuckle and step closer to him. “Well, I definitely understand that.”
My lips crush against his.
My gut flips.
I step back, creating some space, in hopes that the intimate moment won’t linger.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I’ve had too much to drink.”
Foster approaches me.
“Me, too,” he responds as his warm breath laced with alcohol brushes my cheek.
His lips are suddenly on mine, and his body presses my back on the wall near the secluded restrooms. My hands sculpt around the shape of his shoulders and arms.
Gravity pulls on my stomach, our bodies tumble into the dark, and we are no longer standing.
I’m lying naked with the mattress squeaking at my back. The scent of mint, alcohol, and sweat waft through the air as heavy pants surround the room. Grunts are flying from my lips and from the man over me, burying himself inside me.
“Fuck, Evelyn! Your body is incredible.”
~~~~~~
My eyelids rapidly flutter open, seeing hazy shades of creams and whites. The heaviness in my chest and within my head leaves me with little desire to move.
I squeeze my lids tight, slowly count to ten in unison with the intake of air to my lungs, and then open my eyes again.
I hate hangovers.
The covers are so warm and cozy…and then, a few seconds later, I’m sweating. I need to get out of this heated bed.
Rolling to my side, I reach around to grab the blanket’s edge, only to touch a hefty hand.
Realization strikes me.
I’m at Foster’s apartment.
